Hugh Howey's Blog, page 74

The German Wool Trailer!

How crazy is this?

One week from today, I’ll be flying to Germany to celebrate the hardback release. Can’t wait!

A Minecraft Silo!

Yes. For realz. Avery Barnard, a Wool reader and Minecraft player, has begun work on a silo built lovingly, brick by brick. Check it:

The recreation of the first book had Amber and I riveted and screaming, “No way, no way!”

And the tour at the end is incredible. Love the spiral staircase.

The Terror of Legitimacy

Heh. A soon as I typed “Legitimacy,” M.C. Hammer’s hit single got stuck in my head. That’ll be playing for the duration of this post. Kinda annoying.

I’m not too legit to quit, though. In fact, I never set out to be legit. I started out by writing an adventure story that *I* wanted to read. I stuck with that story because my wife got to reading along as I went, and she wanted to know how it all ended. So I kept writing in order to show her.

When I was done, I had an adventure starring this Molly Fyde character that I figured wasn’t all that bad. All I cared about at that point was convincing other people to read it. So I sent the .doc file to family members and friends. My cousin Lisa Robinson fell in love with the story and wanted a sequel. Friends of mine from an online forum said they enjoyed the work as much as anything they’d picked up in bookstores. One of these forum denizens was Lisa Kelly-Wilson, who also happened to be an editor. She wrote me after reading that rough draft to explain how wary she was of anyone who suddenly announces “I’ve written a novel.” And then she said it was good. Really good. I had a hard time believing her (a struggle that persists to this day).

Because of this feedback, I decided to follow the urgings and advice of others and get the thing published. I learned how to write query letters. I researched agents and publishers. I Googled “SASE” to find out what the hell that stood for. This was in 2009, before the rise of self-published authors making it big. I resisted the urge to bypass all this delaying nonsense and simply post the story on a blog or a website like I’d originally planned. Friends and family provided the boost my confidence needed to treat my work seriously.

Even as that story went to publication and won endorsements from bestselling authors and awards from book bloggers, I continued to write for what I perceived to be a small and intimate audience. My wife, mom, sister, and a handful of friends were the only readers I had in mind. Believe it or not, I continue to think of the same target audience when I sit down to write. It boggles my mind to think that strangers will ever read my work.

The first real jolt to my system came in 2010 when I went to visit a middle school English class. I’d met the class teacher in the ASU bookstore where I worked. She and her kids were browsing the aisles while at the university for Model United Nations, and we got to talking YA books. I mentioned my dream of making it as an author and showed her the Molly Fyde series. At that time, only the first two books were out. She bought them both. I didn’t think anything more would come of it until I got an email from her asking if I could send more copies — the kids were fighting over the ones she had.

I donated several more of each Molly book. Before long, another email arrived asking if I would come talk to the school. I said I would love to. At that point, I’d spoken to a few college classrooms about the challenge of writing and publishing. It was quite the step up to go speak to an entire school. But I drove the hour and a half to Mount Airy, gave a talk, and then had pizza with a bunch of 7th graders. We sat with our desks in a circle and I fielded questions about the Molly Fyde universe from a gaggle of fans. Folks, this was weird. It was also one of the coolest experiences of my life. I didn’t know these kids, and yet they had lived and breathed in a world I’d created. It was like being able to discuss some of your coolest dreams with a bunch of people who’d had the same exact dream. I loved it.

Those kids came back the next year for another Model U.N. They had read the third Molly book and Half Way Home by then. They crowded around in the middle of the bookstore and fired more questions at me, told me about a pet gerbil they had in class that they’d named “Vinnie,” and asked me if I’d read The Maze Runner yet. They told me to hurry up with the fourth Molly book and wondered if I would come back and visit their class again. They made me feel, for fifteen minutes in the middle of the bookstore, like I was a real author.

I did end up going back to their school. I taught a writing workshop to two classes and had more pizza. And these yearly visits from the Model U.N. troop gave me a chance to feel what it might be like to have a career as an author. I was still writing with my wife, mom, sister, friends and family in mind … but strangers were now reading my work. I was getting a taste of the fear that came with this. It’s a scary proposition to put words out there that others can dissect and be disappointed by. If you’ve ever double-checked a Facebook post to make sure your grammar isn’t going to make you sound dumb, imagine doing that with 300,000 words per year. I wear diapers when I press the “publish” button on Amazon.

Wool took this fear to a different level. The novelette was published in July of 2011. By October, it had dozens of rave reviews on Amazon. I didn’t publicize the story’s release. I didn’t promote it. I had yet to give away copies or set up “free” days. I didn’t send any to reviewers, friends, or family. This was happening on its own and without my involvement. These people were strangers to me, which is a scary and exciting prospect. I read every review and hung on each word. I took feedback and calls for more works seriously. I dropped what I was planning to write next and launched myself back into the silo to write more.

As my readership grew, so did my fear of disappointing my audience. To combat this, I would eventually begin to write works that I thought no one would want to read. A disgusting zombie story. Wool sequels with no Juliette. I sat at a table with one of the biggest names in publishing this summer, and this industry titan looked at me quite seriously and said that he thought I, Zombie was my best work to date. If I told you who it was, you wouldn’t believe me. I’ve considered wearing diapers to future such meetings. I’ve also learned that I write my best stuff by sticking to what got me here: by writing what I want to read and what my wife might enjoy.

Writing loose and fast has been the key to keeping myself interested and engaged with my material. I’m writing for friends and family, which means I can write freely. I take the final quality seriously, of course. After completing a draft, I do 7 or 8 revisions. I keep at a work until I’m satisfied. In three months, I can turn out a 60,000 word novel, which is the length novels used to be back in the day. Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Fahrenheit 451 were this long or shorter. (That’s meant to give you a sense of quantity not quality!). And my output isn’t all that prodigious, not compared to other authors. Frankenstein was written in a few weeks (another ~60,000 word novel). I can write like this because I don’t think of myself as a legitimate author. I’m just a guy who enjoys telling stories.

That isn’t to say I don’t embrace this as a career. I’ve always dreamed of being a bestselling author. But I never really expected it. Which is why a recent spate of reviews from top magazines, newspapers, and websites have taken the diaper-wearing from occasional to routine. I just saw an early version of a review coming out in the Irish Examiner next week. The Guardian wrote an amazing review. The Hollywood News just published a review yesterday. Several of these reviews comment on the ridiculous hype behind Wool, and then go on to say that the work lives up to this and then some. Amber and I could have twins and go through less diapers.

It’s one thing to wait and hear what your mom will think of your debut novel. I mean, she’s gotta be impressed with the fact that you wrote one at all, right? It’s a lot of words to string together. A lot of videogames not being played. A lot of time concentrating and thinking. Most moms would be proud of whatever tripe you set down.

Your spouse is something different. When Amber reads a manuscript, I peek around the corner at every giggle to make sure it’s at an appropriate place, not some grammar flub or faux pas. “What do you think?” I ask as every page is turned. “Go away, I’m reading,” she says, which is the best response possible.

A classroom of 7th graders is a few notches up from my spouse on the terror-o-meter. College classrooms and their professors are right there with them. And then there’s the bevy of strangers reading because someone I know or have had contact with talks them into the story. They have little connection to me. They are free to judge my work based on comparisons to novels from major publishers. From here, you have strangers one more level out — people who don’t even know the people who know you. They don’t understand that you are some dweeb working in a bookstore and writing during your lunch breaks. They don’t know that your mother and wife are your primary editors. They don’t know that the horrendous cover art is something you put together in an afternoon with your wife modeling and your dog getting in the way. To them, this is a serious stab at real literature. It is judged accordingly. I highly recommend the style with the elastics around the thighs and the ultra-absorbant liners.

Then you have The Guardian. Ridley Scott. Steve Zaillain. #1 NYT Bestselling authors, hoping for a blurb from them. The Hollywood News. The Sydney Times. Can you imagine sitting down to write something knowing that these people would be reading it? It’s not that the opinions of everyday readers count less, it’s just that these people are primed to see flaws and then broadcast those flaws to a wide audience. It’s the way I feel when I respond to my college professor on Facebook. I read over those posts three times, fearful of any mistake. (And then make them anyway).

With M.C. Hammer’s song still rattling around in my noggin, I close this meandering stream of consciousness with a bit of advice to aspiring writers: Keep your audience in mind. The ones who matter the most are those nearest to you. By writing to please my friends and family, there was a good chance I could entertain a classroom of 7th graders. From there, it isn’t all that far to Ridley Scott. Because all readers are legit. Sure, my mom might give me a pass, but the hardest I ever had to work to convince someone to read my book was those early days with cousins and online acquaintances. Even my wife was primed to be unimpressed. Those who know the source can be the most forgiving, but also the least interested. I worked my butt off to wow them, to make sure my stories held their own with anything in the bookstore, and that’s as far out as I dared to gaze across my potential audience. It’s as far as I choose to look even now.

Legitimacy isn’t something I strive for. I doubt I’m capable of such ambition. It terrifies me to be analyzed as if I’m a real author, whether by my cousin Lisa or by a professional book reviewer. I’m just a guy who has always loved reading, has always dreamed of writing, and is now muddling his way through one page at a time. I’m 37 years old, a full-time writer, and I wear diapers. I’m living the dream. And I survive by pretending none of it is real.

This is How I Picture It.

The Great Spiral Staircase, exposed.

A Wallscreen In Tiananmen Square

A NaNoWriMo Webinar!

Indie bestseller Sarra Cannon, Amanda Wilson from CreateSpace, and yours truly will be guests on an upcoming NaNoWriMo Webinar! I was thrilled when Grant Faulkner reached out to me about this opportunity. Grant runs National Novel Writing Month, which I’ve participated in for the last four years.

Ever since I started taking writing seriously, I’ve used November as an excuse to focus my energies on a single novel and get a complete rough draft put together. My first year, I wrote HALF WAY HOME, a book that has gone on to become a fan favorite. The following year, it was THE HURRICANE, another book I get wonderful feedback on. I had a down year the next November, when I wrote WOOLs 2, 3, and 4. But I rebounded this year with THIRD SHIFT.

I talk up NaNo every chance I get. In previous years, I worked with the young writers program at my local library. This year, I was pleased to make a donation to the program, giving back to an organization that has given so much to me. I’m hoping they didn’t spend my $5 all at once!

If you’re interested in the Webinar, here’s the link. I think it will be made available afterward as well, but I’m not sure. The date is February 18th. I’m leaving for Germany and the UK on the 19th, so this could very well be the last you hear from me. Ever. Or not. We’ll see.

We’ve reached the cutoff for signed books

Just a heads-up: Due to upcoming travels, any signed books ordered going forward could see several weeks of delays before arriving. Unless you want Amber or Bella to sign your book.

The Uber-Unboxing!

I Don’t Know Writing, But I Know What I Like…

I can’t remember where it was suggested or by whom, but someone recently asked me to write a blog post on craft. How I write. How I plot. How I come up with my characters and my stories.

I dutifully sat down to write a blog post on my process — and then I realized that I have absolutely no clue how I do these things. To be honest, I don’t think I’m all that good at the business of writing. You should see how brutally painful the process is for me. My rough drafts go from unreadable notes and musings into something with a semblance of story, but it doesn’t happen easily. It isn’t pretty.

I just finished a science fiction work from a debut author. It isn’t out yet (they wanted me to blurb it), and all I could think was how far superior this writer is. I marvel at his ability to turn a phrase, the character development, the plot, the pacing. It’s brilliant. How does anyone do this? How do I do this?

After watching myself write the last few days with this question in the back of my mind, I now have an idea of what makes me a decent writer. It’s a combination of being a practiced reader and a persistant motherfucker.

Reading is the best lesson on writing. It’s like listening to music over and over again until you learn how a good song is supposed to sound. I think I “write by reading” the way some people can “play by ear.” When I’m writing a rough draft, I can tell that my words suck. It’s painfully obvious. When I go back to revise, I take those sucky words and I keep rearranging them until they stop sucking. Eventually, the words flow and convey meaning in a manner that I’m tolerant of. With the next pass, more of these spots are sanded down until they don’t trip me up. Enough passes like this, and my stories start to read about as decently as anyone else’s. I just stick with it until I don’t hate it. I bang on the keys until a tune pops out.

Learning to be this persistant was difficult. For two decades, I started stories only to abandon them. I never put enough work into them to love them, and thereby to love the process of writing. It wasn’t until I received feedback for some lengthy blog posts and sailing adventures that I felt encouraged to write to completion. After that, I began writing book, film, and product reviews that won a bit of praise. This fed my drive to be more persistant with my novels. I finally tunneled my way through to the end of a manuscript. I cleaned it up until the words stopped stabbing me in my eyeballs. I fell in love with this process.

How do I write? The same way I take pictures (another hobby that people mistakenly think I’m good at). I do a lot of it, and then I delete the bits that suck. I’m a great reader. I’ve been doing it all my life. I know what’s good and what’s bad. I just have to make a lot of the bad in order to get lucky and stumble on some of the good. And then I publish my greatest hits.

My best advice, then, is to write a bunch and write to completion. Start small. Write reviews and post them on Facebook or a blog. Write journal entries about your day or days from your past. Write short stories. Write fan fiction. Stick with it for years. I know that seems like a long time, so I suggest you enjoy the process along the way. Enjoy each piece you finish. Share your work. You’ll get better, believe me. And I think, when the words align just so and you write something with perfect pitch, that you’ll surprise yourself. You’ll see that this is something anyone can do. You just need to get a lot down and know what you like when you see it. Be persistant, motherfuckers.

A Stranger Year

One year ago today, I worked my last day at the bookstore. I can’t begin to describe the mix of terror and excitement I felt. This was only a week or two after the Wool Omnibus came out. I had yet to hit any bestseller lists; I hadn’t yet signed with an agent; there was no film deal, no foreign deals. Just a handful of 99 cent and $1.99 titles selling well enough to replace what I was making shelving books.

The demands on my time were starting to grow, which was why I put in my notice. I decided to give this career a shot. For the three years prior, I’d been writing and publishing at a furious pace but working a day job on the side to pay my meager bills. Working in a university bookstore meant interacting with a lot of authors; a good portion of the faculty wrote. We had a visiting writers program, and I worked most of those events. Everyone I knew who wrote had a day job. There just isn’t much hope of paying the bills by the pen alone.

Hence my trepidation. But I’d taken a lot of risks in my life, and I never regretted a one. All of my boating jobs and wild adventures took place because I dared to say “Yes.” I knew I could get another day job if it came to that. I still know this. I think most of my fear, to be honest, was that I would fail at being a writer. Failing in other areas of my life hasn’t been too painful, but those weren’t childhood dreams. Being a writer is something I’ve aspired to for a very long time. Sucking at it would crush a fanciful image I hold of myself. A person I dream I might become.

The very first thing I did as a full-time writer was speak at my childhood library. The timing was pure coincidence. I had agreed to speak at the annual meeting some months prior. A friend of my parents’ from my hometown bumped into me at the bookstore and asked what I was up to. I mentioned the writing, and she said it would be cool to have me return to the library I grew up in and bring everything full circle. She couldn’t have known that she was kicking off the start of a new circle as much as ending an old one. (Heh. Circles don’t end, do they?)

That was one year ago. I showed up at the library, and I’ll never forget helping them unstack chairs and arrange them in front of a podium. It felt natural to help. This was what I used to do at the bookstore: set up for an author to speak. One of the ladies arranging the chairs turns to another and says, “I don’t think we’ll need this many. I mean, who’s ever heard of this Hugh Howey?”

I was standing right beside her when she said this. She was practically look at me. “I’m Hugh Howey,” I said, almost apologetically. And what if she was right? What if no one showed up? It was true that hardly anyone had heard of me. It feels like that should still be the case.

I’m not used to the idea that strangers are reading my work. Maybe this makes more sense when you release books the traditional route. You have this years-long buildup of querying and submissions and finally a book deal. And then a year before the book comes out to get used to the idea of being an author. There’s a big splash in bookstores — your first release — and you expect strangers are reading your work. You hope for it!

The self-publishing route is a slow burn. My books have been out there for years, mostly read by friends and family. Sure, some people I hardly know have read my Molly Fyde series or picked up Wool, but I can always trace them through three Facebook links. They are friends of cousins of coworkers. The stranger bit has really snuck up on me. It still hasn’t sunk in, to be honest. So many of my readers now friend me on Facebook or email me that it still feels like people I know. I’m not famous, I swear. No part of me feels like I am or that I should be. Authors should remain invisible while their work (one hopes) gains some notoriety. Or maybe I’m just uncomfortable with the thought.

That’s why yesterday’s encounter serves as a bizarre and apropos bookend to this year of strangers. My wife works at the university here in town (it’s why we moved here in June. It puts us closer to her family, which has been great). Yesterday, she sat with a group of faculty in the cafeteria. At some point, she left to call me or to take my call. When she got back, one of the professors was agape.The story I’m about to relate is uncomfortable for me and probably uncomfortable for the faculty member (who reads this blog, I hear. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself). I paraphrase on the side of caution. That is: I have toned the excitement down.

My wife got back to the table, and this faculty member looks at her and asks, incredulously: “You aren’t married to Hugh Howey, are you?”

You can imagine how stunned and confused Amber must’ve been. “Yeah,” she said.

“The Hugh Howey?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“The writer?”

“My husband is a writer, yeah.”

While my wife had been outside on the phone, someone had mentioned that she was talking to me and what I did for a living. And then my name came up. One of the faculty members thought they were joking.

“Your husband is my favorite author,” she said to Amber. And for the next fifteen minutes, my wife heard a string of superlatives she wished she had recorded because she can’t remember half of it. The professor’s favorite book of mine is Half Way Home, but she loves Wool. She’s read everything except for I, Zombie, but she has a copy of that, anyway. Amber told her to email me or get in touch. The professor said “No way.” She said she follows my blog (*waves*) but never comments. Amber told her I was normal. Less than normal. Boring. The professor, meanwhile, went on and on.

Of course, I fell out while hearing the account. What are the chances? This person has no direct or even cousin-and-coworker indirect connection to me. We just moved here. My books aren’t yet in bookstores. I don’t feel like this stuff should be happening to me. Friends of mine shouldn’t see strangers on buses and subways holding paperback copies of Wool — and yet they have. Someone I know shouldn’t have a relative recommend my books to them without hearing it from them first — and yet they have. And for certain, a faculty member at my wife’s university shouldn’t list me as her favorite author — and yet she does.

I’ve had some strange years, but this has been a stranger one, for sure. A year that started with me as a stranger to a library worker. A year that ended with my wife hearing from a complete stranger how much she loves my work. And stranger and stranger things have peppered nearly every day in between.

The talk at the library went great a year ago. The lady who had never heard of me came up afterward beaming. She complimented my speech and asked if I would come back. And the people who stood in the back of the room the entire time I spoke — they didn’t seem to mind the lack of chairs.